


First Date

by j520j



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Poirot - Agatha Christie, Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: First Date, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Sexual Inexperience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 02:57:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13871625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j520j/pseuds/j520j
Summary: Everything Arthur Hastings has learned in his life about relationships needs to be thoroughly rethought after Hercule Poirot accepts his invitation to a date.





	First Date

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Primeiro Encontro](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13868904) by [j520j](https://archiveofourown.org/users/j520j/pseuds/j520j). 



> please, forgive the few grammar atrocities...

My father always said that if you want to win a woman on the first date, you should start by praising her dress. Women usually devote a long time choosing the piece they will wear for the occasion and recognizing this effort opens the door to greater rewards.

Unfortunately he never told me if this trick would work on a first date with a man.

Not that men didn't dress well on the first date either. I spent more than ten minutes looking at myself in the mirror to make sure my tie was in line. After all the person I was going out with that night was my old friend and current suitor, Hercule Poirot. A man who always paid close attention to anything that was misaligned or out of place.

After concluding that my clothes were in accordance with the occasion, I began to move away from the mirror. But an impetus to take one last look at my look made me return. Everything in order. All symmetrical, as far as I could judge. I walked away from the mirror again with a growing nervousness inside me.

It was my first date with Poirot.

I got in my car, started it, and for a moment I thought my heart was going to stop when I heard a not very pleasant sound coming from the engine. _Don't do this to me! Not today!_ I began to think, worried.

At last the car move. I wondered if perhaps it would be better to put it aside and call a cab, but no. I would do this in a last resort. My Lagonda could not disappoint me. Not on such an important day.

As I drove through the streets, I wondered what I should do if Poirot wanted to pay for dinner. My friend was always very generous, always making sure to open the wallet every time we ate out, although in these cases I was accompanying him as an assistant.

This time it was quite different, it was a date. And it was me who called.

I parked in front of the Whitehaven mansions. I entered the building and pressed the elevator button. As I waited for him to arrive, I realized that I was holding my breath. I'd been in that apartment a hundred times, but this time it was totally different. Not even on the first romantic date I had in my life, during my teenage years, I was so nervous.

 _What should I say?_ I thought, feeling the palms of my hands sweating. _Should I praise the outfit he's wearing? Will this sound weird? I've never complimented his clothes before! Maybe I should compliment something else ... hm ... I remember a girlfriend who liked me to compliment her hair, maybe ... oh, no! Praising Poirot's hair would sound like a tease!_ the elevator arrived and I stepped into it abruptly, still lost in my thoughts. _Maybe I should compliment his ... oh!_

To my utter astonishment, Poirot was inside the elevator and I came bumping into him. I took a fright and pulled away from him, almost as if he had been electrocuted.

" _Bon sang_!" he exclaimed, adjusting his hat that was disheveled with the bump. But he smiled when he realized that the person who had hit him was me. "Hastings, _mon ami_!"

"Poirot!" I said, still shocked. "I ... uh ... that's ah ... b-beautiful elevator!"

 _Idiot!_ I thought, biting my lip. The first good impression was ruined.

"Uh, no! I meant ... ah! I wanted to say that you are ... are ...!"

My speech was cut off when my friend stepped forward and hugged me. Feeling the caress of his face on my cheek made me forget everything. He had done this so many times in the past, but now that continental greeting carried a very different weight for me.

"You're tense, Hastings." he pulled away, lifting his hand up to my tie to straighten it (damn! It must have been messy with our impact). "It looks like I just hugged a wooden board."

"Sorry ..." I finally regained my ability to speak. "... I ... uh ... thought you'd wait in the apartment."

"I was at the window and I saw your car around the corner, I came down as soon as possible, I hope you'll forgive my anxiety."

"Oh ... do not worry ... I ... I'm ... anxious too ..."

"Yes, I can see!" he smiled affectionately. "Well, let's not waste any more time here in the lobby of the building.

 

..................................................

 

I made the reservation at Poirot's favorite restaurant. I told him that he could ask anything he wanted, without even bothering about the price. After all, it would all be all on me. But I could tell he was asking for simpler, cheaper dishes than he usually did.

"Poirot!" I said, shaking my head in negative just after the waiter walk away after bringing a wine that, despite the good quality, cost half the price of the wine my friend used to drink. "Stop this! I've already said that I'm paying."

"I know, _mon cher_." he said, putting the menu on the table. "But you don't have to worry, all the meals and drinks I ordered today are totally in line with what I'm used to, I just don't want to ... well ... make your wallet suffer."

"Absolute piffle!" I exclaimed, perhaps a little too loudly, for some heads turned for a moment toward us. "I want you to enjoy the best dinner of your life. My treat!"

Poirot's eyes seemed to carry a little pity, something that bothered me. It was I who had invited him! It would be too humiliating for me, as a man, that my suitor would make savings or decide to split the bill.

Even if my suitor was also a man. A man who makes at least five times more money than I did.

"Hastings, you don't have to prove anything to me." he said in a serious, understanding tone. "And surely you don't have to squander your savings on me, I know your military pension is no big deal ..."

"Stop." I asked, trying to control the volume of my voice. "I don't depend only on the generosity of the government, I have my investments and a ranch in Argentina, of which I have some financial return, you don't have to worry about my money, Poirot. Not today."

He opened his mouth to what was obviously a rebuttal, but he changed his mind. His expression softened and he nodded slightly.

" _Bon_ ... in this case, I think I'll ask the waiter to change this bottle for an older vintage wine."

"Jolly good!" I said, happy and raising my hand to call the waiter.

 

..................................................

 

Dinner was rather quiet, since Poirot and I used to talk more about his work than anything else. And it would be bad to talk about work in a date.

From time to time I made some comment about cars, golf and cricket, three subjects that he didn't know very well. And on his part, he talked about French cuisine, plays and Art Deco, three alien subjects for me.

I sought to speak about other things, but… I was too afraid. I wanted to talk about how beautiful he looked. How I found his accent sensual. How much to see his smile filled me with joy. I wanted to tell Poirot that I wanted to touch his hands, which seemed so strong and at the same time so soft.

But I was afraid I might be, let's say, bypassing the signal. That was our first date. It was true that the two of us had known each other for years, but I couldn't feel comfortable telling him all the things I felt. And, I must admit, the fact that he was a man was not helping.

Something in the back of my brain reminded me that I shouldn't say these things to a man. But my heart longed to make those confessions. During all these years the presence of Poirot always filled me with joy. Working alongside him was what saved me from depression after I was discharged from the army. To be helpful to him, to see him smile, to hug him ... all these things just filled me with happiness. It was _not_ possible that such a feeling could be wrong.

Seeing him gently wiping his lips with a napkin made me wish to touched them myself.

 _No. It's too early for a kiss. This is just our first date._ I thought.

A lively jazz song started playing suddenly. I looked back and realized that a band had begun its performance. They were playing some of Benny Goodman's arrangements. Three couples got up from their tables and started to dance.

I looked back at Poirot and realized he was smiling at the band. His feet touching the floor to the rhythm of the music. I smiled at him and asked, casually.

"Wanna Dance?"

The proposal seemed to surprise him. Was I going too far?

"Oh, I'd love to dance with you, _mon cher_." he whispered. "But I'm afraid if we danced here, at best I'd have a hard time getting some work again, and at worst, we'd leave this place the two of us in handcuffs."

"Oh ... forgive me."

"Maybe we can dance on our second date." he said, stroking my hand lightly. "In my house."

The proposal made me feel butterflies in my stomach. This time it was Poirot who was inviting me on a date. A more intimate one, in his apartment. My Victorian sensibilities said that this was very ... _risqué_. But my heart wanted to overflow with happiness.

Oh, but our first date was not over yet.

We watch the couples dance. Everyone was very attentive at the dance to realize that two men were holding hands at table twenty-two.

 

.................................................. 

 

On our way home, Poirot and I were more talkative. We talked about our lives before we met. I told him that I had always been a average student at Eton and that my childhood was a bit tedious, always locked up on the family estate. I had some difficulty in overcoming my shyness, which I only succeeded after I entered the army.

On his side, Poirot told me about his free and wild childhood in Belgium, about his difficulty in adjusting to other children and how much the teachers admired his intelligence. He spoke of his early years in the Brussels police and of the decorations he received at such a young age.

That conversation made me a little apprehensive, for it only reinforced what I already thought of my friend: he was too good for me.

Although I had reservations in agreeing with his petulance in calling himself the greatest mind in Europe, I knew that Poirot was a genius in his area. An extraordinarily endearing man, in spite of his mannerisms that could irritate the greatest defenders of British culture. Quite insightful, good of conversation, owner of a great baggage of knowledge (except on cars, golf and cricket) and a sense of unshakeable justice. He had determination, intelligence, a good social life and a vast bank account. And, for me, he was so handsome!

How could I, a poor and boring Englishman, be able to keep someone like him at my side? Not even in terms of physical beauty did I seem to be good enough for him.

"Hastings?" he called me, interrupting my thoughts. "You turned in the wrong street."

"Oh, my mistake." I said, letting out a frustrated sigh. "I was thinking about ... about ..." I bit my lip. Maybe it was too early to say 'I was thinking about us.'

I wasn't even sure if we were a couple yet. Poirot hadn't yet told me what he had think of that night. My head was filled with doubts:

_Was my first impression good? Did I offend him by insisting on paying the bill? I don't remember him giving too much praise to the restaurant's food. Maybe he found it too daring a suggest to dance ... but ... no, he invited me to the second date, didn't he? Was this confirmation that he had enjoyed the evening?_

_Maybe he changed his mind. I didn't see him smile as I told my story. Oh, will he give up? Did he come to the conclusion that he wouldn't want as a companion a man who can not even turn the car on the correct street?_

"You're thinking too much, _mon cher_." Poirot smiled, touching my shoulder lightly. "I can hear your poor gray cells straining from here."

"Oh, sorry, I ..."

"You apologize too much."

"Yes. Sorry ... I mean ... yeah, it's true."

We arrived at Whitehaven mansions. I got out of the car quickly, turned around, and opened the door for Poirot. He thanked me in French and I took him by the arm to the lobby. I wondered if I should go upstairs with him to the apartment or if I should bid him farewell. I thought it best to end the date quickly.

"I need to go now. Tomorrow I have some things to do early in the morning."

"Yes, I will also have to resolve some unpleasant matters about my documentation at the Belgian embassy. Bureaucratic thing. "

"Oh, I hope it's all right, and ... well ..." I made a sign of bowing to him, but I stopped in the middle of the movement, not knowing exactly what to do. _Should I shake hands with him? A hug?_ "... so have a good night, Poirot."

"It was a good night, Arthur!"

Listening to my first name being told by Poirot caught me off guard. I thought it was too early for that. Somewhat surprised, I tried to stammer out his name.

"Oh, I ... I'm glad to... to hear... this ... Hercule!"

 _What terrible pronunciation was this?!_ I thought to myself. I was sure that the way I had said 'Hercule' was _not_ at all like how Poirot talks when he introduced himself. And I was pretty sure I had included an 's' at the end of the name. _You fool! Didn't the French lessons you had at school count on anything? What you...?!_

My thought was totally cut off when I felt his hand grab my chin and leading my head slightly toward him.

The kiss was soft. The feel of the mustache brushing my upper lip seemed strange at first, but only in the first two seconds. My hands wrapped around my friend's waist and I deepened the kiss, opening my lips and letting his tongue intertwine with mine.

That was more, much more than I expected to achieve in a first date. My father would be proud.

Or maybe not.

With a heavy breath, Poirot turned away. He looked at my face and laughed. I must be red to the ear. Gently, he got rid of my arms and touched my still moist lips with his index finger.

"Next Saturday, at my home." he said, a malicious smile on his lips. "Seven o'clock at night."

"Oh ... yes." I said, when he had already entered the elevator. "So ... until Saturday."

" _À bientôt, mon amour_!" were his words before the elevator doors closed.

I can hardly describe how I got back into my car. Floating, probably! I was radiating happiness, with a pleasant sense of duty fulfilled mixed with youthful passion.

Over time, happiness gave way to nervousness. Our second date would be next week and I was already thinking too much about how it should be, how I should behave. And it had been less than five minutes since I had left Poirot in his apartment.

In the privacy of his home we could be more intimate. We could dance ( _oh yes, he promised a dance!_ ) And my head has already begun to work on the complicated question of who should lead who. _Maybe me because I'm taller? Or maybe Poirot because he made the invitation?_

The questions about the advancement of our relationship, physically speaking, also made me nervous. I mean ... Golly! I didn't even know how the lovemaking between two men should work! I had a vague idea, but still ...

Should I call some friends who knew about such things and ask for some information? Or maybe I should just play the virgin maiden and let Poirot lead everything when the time comes. A perspective that displeased me, though at the same time it excited me.

The car horn behind me made me return to reality. The headlights were already green and I still had not started with the car. The tires sang as I turned the next corner, my mind still fogged with nervousness and happiness.

One thing I could be sure of: our second date would be even better than the first. Certainly!


End file.
